


Somnium

by CloudCover (RainyForecast)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Getting Together, M/M, Nova Scotia With Sid, Off-Season, Pining, Summer 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 20:22:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20215729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover
Summary: He keeps dreaming of snow.It’s July. The weather is warm and sticky, and the sun has been blazing hot for weeks. And he dreams about snow.





	Somnium

He keeps dreaming of snow. 

It’s July. The weather is warm and sticky, and the sun has been blazing hot for weeks. And he dreams about snow. 

It’s the same every time. A lake fringed with dark trees, the ice covered in a flawless expanse of white. Blank and perfect. In the dream, he has a pair of skates slung over his shoulder by the laces. When he swings them down to untie the knots and get them on his feet, they’re always a different pair he recognizes.

The first pair of good skates he’d received as a child, still able to fit him in the boundless logic of dreaming. He’d fallen asleep clutching them to his chest when he’d gotten them that Christmas. Stuffed dog under one arm, skates under the other. 

The beat up pair he hid in Rimouski, so that he could practice even after they took away his regular skates. The same ones he’d take to play shinny in the park, just to feel a little normal. Free. 

The pair he wore to win gold in Vancouver, gleaming and perfect. 

In the dream he sits on a snowbank and pulls the skates on, and then he’s on the ice. You can’t skate on snow-covered ice, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Dream logic again. 

The dark trees around the lake never grow closer, no matter how hard he skates for the opposite shore. Always, he ends up standing in the middle of that blank, unsettling expanse of white, frustrated. When he looks behind him, there’s never a mark in the featureless snow to show where he’s been. Nothing. 

And he wakes up then, usually, disturbed and wondering why the fuck he’s dreaming that dream again. 

***

He’s busy enough.The flurry of early summer weddings has petered out, finally. He loves his friends’ happiness, but the annual glut gets…old. Exhausting. 

He has a few media obligations, some pre-planned get togethers with Nate and any of the boys who happen to be in town. He’s ramping up the training. But he still has too much damn time to brood in between it all. You’d think he’d be able to get the bad taste of last season out of his mouth by now, but it lingers, their ignominious playoff exit following him like a shadow. 

He fishes, he paddleboards. He golfs. He trains some more. He tries going to the farmer’s market and has to leave after fifteen minutes because of the commotion his appearance causes. He teaches himself how to make gluten free parmesan chicken from the Internet. 

He checks social media, liking pictures of babies and dogs and summertime shenanigans on Instagram. He uploads a photo of his dock at sunrise to his private one, to a flurry of likes and chirping about being a boring old man, fishing all day. 

It’s a little funny but it stings a bit too. He doesn’t like to think of himself as old. He’s not, by ordinary standards. But he is in hockey years, and it terrifies him sometimes. 

He should post more often, then maybe he’d get less shit from the guys. He’d only made his account in the first place so that he could follow the people that mattered to him. 

He wakes up early to find that Geno commented a string of parentheses and a couple incomprehensible emojis. 

He’s given up trying to interpret what Geno means by them; he’s 90% sure he just picks the weirdest ones possible just to fuck with people. 

Sid ponders what to respond, and finally settles on turtle, Brazillian flag, paperclip. There, let him have a taste of his own medicine. 

_i dont get it,_ Jake posts underneath.   
_Probably sex stuff,_ replies Flower. _better not to ask. _

_Asshole_, Sid replies, and feels his face flush. It’s all meant as a joke, but thinking of sex and Geno too close together is always a problem, and he buries the well-worn thing he doesn’t acknowledge like he always does. 

***

The next time he has the dream, there’s someone else there. He doesn’t see them, but their presence behind him lies on him like a weight. 

He stops in the middle of the lake like he always does. The presence behind him stops too. 

“Hey,” Sid says, more as an inquiry than a greeting. 

Some small bit of dream-awareness slots into place, and he knows that it’s Geno, behind him.

“Three years Superleague, huh?” Sid says. It’s good, and right, Geno standing behind him. 

***

More training. A podcast recording with Biz and Whit that actually ends up being a lot of fun. Just shooting the shit and swapping stories. 

They ask him about Geno, of course, angling for some dirt, some “ha ha he’s so Russian” and “what a bully” kind of shit. Sid doesn’t give them anything.

Geno, Sid has always thought, is more just like an enormous cat. A little moody and opinionated, liking things to be just so. Affectionate and friendly only on his own terms. He’s always wondered if that was mostly due to the language barrier, or if it’s just how Geno is. He used to watch whenever Geno spoke to Gonch, or his friends on other teams. Listen to the faster cadence of his voice, the expansive movements of his hands, the expressiveness of his face. Trying to figure out who Geno really was when he was comfortable and at ease. 

He used to watch Geno way too much in those days. 

It’s still a problem sometimes. 

Geno always treated Sid a little differently. All of his brash pushiness is tempered a little. He always looks into Sid’s eyes when Sid is trying to tell him something, leaning in and listening with his whole body. Sid has never taken that deference and respect for granted, treating Geno’s fierce loyalty as the precious honor it is.Geno gives zero consequence to people he’s decided he doesn’t like or respect. He isn’t like Sid, he doesn’t bother to reign in his colossal emotions or attempt a veneer of politeness or charm. If he’s done with you he’s done with you. 

Geno is Geno, and Sid, god help him, has always loved him for it. 

***

He has the dream again, and it’s accompanied by a creeping sense of dread. He and the Geno-presence take to the ice. In the middle of the lake, instead of smooth white, the snow is broken by a series of jagged cracks, dark water sloshing malevolently inches from Sid’s skates. 

“Fuck, look out–” he tells Dream-Geno, but Dream-Geno steps past him, for the first time. 

_“Geno!”_ Sid tries to scream, but he doesn’t have the air. In the disjointed way of dreams, Sid just knows that Dream-Geno is in the water now, even if he didn’t see anything happen. 

He drops to his knees, and reaches out. The water looks liquid, but his fingers scrabble along it like it’s ice. He claws at it, horror and desperation cresting over him. He’s trying to scream Geno’s name, but he can’t- he just can’t- 

When he wakes up, he’s gasping, heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. He’s disoriented for a split second, grief crushing, until he wakes up further and realizes he was dreaming. 

He sits up with a groan, shreds of the dream and its dread slowly fading around him. Fuck. He hasn’t had a nightmare like that in years. 

He checks the time on his phone, curses to see that it’s three thirty in the morning. He drags himself up, flinching as he flips the bathroom light on. He takes a piss, and splashes water on his face as if he can wash away the lingering awfulness of the dream. 

So weird. He hadn’t really seen anything, but the emotions themselves had felt so real. 

Back in bed, he almost doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He feels wide awake anyway. What he wants to do, is. 

Incredibly stupid. 

Good for a lifetime of shit-talking if Geno tells anyone. 

He does it anyway. 

_You up?_ He texts Geno. It’s nine-something am in Moscow, so who knows. Geno’s not exactly a morning person. 

There’s no answer, for long enough that he starts to feel even more colossally lame than he already did. 

Then his phone rings, making him jump. Fuck. 

“Sid?” Geno says when he picks up. “What’s happen? It’s night for you.” 

God, his voice. Deep and rumbling right in his ear. Accent thick like it always gets over the summer when he doesn’t use his English for months. Sid feels something in him let go, soothed by a living, breathing Geno at the other end of the line. But, then, he realizes that he now has to come up with an explanation that isn’t just, “hey bud, just had a real bad dream, wish you were here to fucking tuck me in, eh?” 

“Uh. I’m okay it’s just… I was thinking.”

There’s a judgmental silence on the other end of the line. Sid pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. 

“You’re gonna chirp me forever, man. I, uh. I’ve been having this dream.” 

“Whaat?” Geno draws the word out, somehow conveying both amusement and disbelief. 

“I know, I know. But I’ve been having this stupid dream about skating on a lake, yeah? Just over and over. It’s fucking weird. And you were there? I think. The last few times, anyway. And this time there were these cracks in the ice, and you fell in. You know how even if it doesn’t make sense, for a second in a dream your brain doesn’t know the difference? Well. You, you were dead.” 

He pauses, realizing he’s babbling, how stupid this is. Shame washes over him. 

“Okay…” Geno says, clearly trying to take all of that in. “Sorry for dream?”

“Not your fault,” Sid says automatically. “So, yeah. Pretty much I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Geno huffs out a laugh. “Okay. I’m doing good, so.” There’s a pause, like he’s considering something. 

“It’s little bit cute, you know? Call me for scared.” His tone is amused but not as teasing as Sid would expect. 

Still. _Cute._

_“Oh _my god,” Sid groans, and flops back into his pillows. 

“So stupid,” he says, more to himself then to Geno. 

“No, no,” Geno says, and he’s definitely laughing now. “It’s fine, most cute. Can call me, I can give you some story, for sleep. Maybe some song.” 

“Fuck off,” Sidney gripes, but he’s kind of smiling at the ceiling now, like a dweeb. 

Geno yawns, then audibly settles back into the bed or couch he’s probably lounging on. “So, keep having dream?”

“Yeah, over and over. No idea why.”

“Stress?”

Sid is quiet for a moment, wondering how to answer. “Maybe. My birthday, the season coming up. You know.” 

“You captain,” Geno says. “Lots things for worry.” The matter of fact way he says it is comforting, somehow. “You need come here. Have fun in Russia.” 

“Naw. The visa would take too long to get,” Sid says, wondering if Geno means it, if he’d really like to show Sid around Moscow.

“You know how long it’s take?” Geno sounds amused again, like he’s smiling. “You think about?” 

“Oh, off and on,” Sid answers. “Over the years, you know.” 

“Should do, Russia best.”

Sid laughs. “Oh, for sure.”

“You do, you come. We go to banya, we eat Russian food. You can go to some museum, so boring.” 

It sounds… really good. It makes an old ache start up behind Sid’s ribcage to think about it, but it sounds good. Especially if…

There’s always been an expiration date on Geno’s time in the US. And if this season is as bad as the last– 

Sid tamps down the urge to surrender to the loss he can sense hovering on the horizon. 

“That sounds amazing, G. I want to, I really do. What about next summer? I can make sure the paperwork is all set up ahead of time.” Something to look forward to in that summer, no matter what. A way to delay Geno from slipping through his fingers if Geno decides he’s finally had it. 

He’s being irrational, he knows. Geno has a contract. And yet.

“Yes, we do,” Geno says, with finality. “You come.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Then there’s a bit of rustling on Geno’s end, like he’s sitting up. He sounds more awake when he speaks again. 

“I can come early, now. Go to Canada first.”

Sid blinks, his lips parting in surprise. “Come here? To Nova Scotia? You’d want to?”

“No more bad dream,” Geno coos mockingly, and Sid has to laugh. 

“You gonna tuck me in at night, eh?” Fuck, no, what is he doing. That sounds like he’s trying to flirt, or something. He needs to backpedal. 

“For real though. I’d always love to have you visit, you know that. I just thought, it’s a little quiet, maybe. Boring.” His voice, damn it, is a lot softer than he meant it to sound. Maybe revealing a little too much. He hopes Geno isn’t paying attention. 

“Mooost boring,” Geno drawls. Then, firmly: “I come. You can show me fishing. No golf.” 

Something stupid and anticipatory flutters in Sidney’s gut. “Sure, okay. Let’s uh, work out the details.” Fuck.

***

Geno plans to go to Miami for a week, then to Sid’s, then to fly together down to Pittsburgh for training camp. He grouses a little at needing to be early because Sid is the captain and always shows up in town first. 

He grumbles but then he’s there in a week and a half, tanned and insolent with a backwards SnapBack on his head, rolling a lollipop stick between his teeth and disturbing Sid’s whole universe. 

He pulls Sid in for a one armed hug and a backslap, right there in the terminal. He smells like airplane and very nice cologne, and Sid wonders why the hell he allowed this to happen.

He’s exhausted but looks around avidly as they take the 102 down to Dartmouth. 

“Flat,” he says thoughtfully. “Big sky. Like Russia.”

Sid feels disproportionately pleased about that. 

It’s so strange, looking at home through Geno’s eyes, or trying to. He wants him to like it. 

“Halifax is across the harbor from where we are now,” Sid explains. “We can take a look around tomorrow.”

“I’m look Google Earth,” Geno says. “Little bit. Pretty.”

“It is,” Sid agrees. 

There’s a strange little smile playing around Geno’s lips as he takes in his surroundings. Sid isn’t quite sure what it means. 

When they get to Sid’s place, Geno unfolds his long legs from the car and shoves his sunglasses up on his head. He just stands there for a minute, looking at the house, the sliver of lake visible through the trees. 

Then he looks at Sid, like he’s fitting Sid into this place in his mind. That wry little smile is back. 

“Looks like you,” he says, and Sid isn’t quite sure what he means. 

***

Sid takes Geno out on the lake to fish. He takes him to the rink for training, where Geno imperiously nods once at Nate and then proceeds to ignore him for the rest of the drills. He stands in the lobby for a long time, looking at the display of Sid’s jerseys and photos. He takes a picture of one of Sid’s Timbits photos with his phone. 

Sid takes him around Halifax, as promised, then to his parent’s house, where Geno is all charm and bashful politeness, helping Sid’s mom in the kitchen and talking hockey with Sid’s dad. 

In every place, it’s a strange collision of worlds. Sid has to stop himself from just, staring all the time. Geno, here in his life. Lying on the floor of his parents’ living room to fuss over Sam. Rifling through Sid’s cabinets to judge his lack of acceptable tea. Strapping on his pads in the locker room of the rink where Sid learned to skate. 

He fits easier than Sid had imagined, and that ache seems to sit in his chest all the time now.

***

Geno’s been there nearly a week when Sid has the dream again. Same thing, with Geno disappearing into the dark water. 

Sid wakes up drenched in sweat, and swears before stumbling as quietly as he can to his kitchen for cold water from the Brita in the fridge. 

“Sid?”

Sid yelps, sloshing water all over the counter. “Fuck!” 

Geno’s lying on the couch in the living room, awash in the blue light of the muted television. 

“What are you doing up? Did I wake you?” 

“Still little bit jet lag. What’s happen? Dream, again?” 

Sid takes his glass of water and stands pointedly by the couch until Geno pulls up his knees and frees a space for Sid to sit. 

“Yeah.” Sid sighs. “So stupid.” He rubs at his eyes. 

“I’m die?” 

Sid stares ahead at the silent TV. It’s showing an ad for Canadian Tire. He’s not sure how he feels about talking about this, least of all talking about it with Geno.   
“Uh huh.” 

Geno scoots partially upright, and regards Sid with a surprising amount of gravity. 

“What you worry about, Sid?” he says, and it’s quiet, his voice low. 

Sid can’t look at him. He takes a long swallow of water and sets his glass carefully on the coffee table, trying to decide how honest to be. 

He’s too tired, on too many levels, to say anything other than the truth. 

“That if we have another season like we did, you’ll decide you’re done.” 

Geno whole face seems to go soft, his mouth dropping open a little. 

“I know,” Sid says quickly. “I know, this is so stupid, but I just—” 

Geno swings his feet to the floor, and suddenly he’s right there next to him, so close their thighs are almost touching. 

“Sid,” Geno says, and waits to continue until Sid looks over at him. 

“Until I’m hurt or you leave, I’m not leave Penguins.” 

His voice is softer and more reassuring than Sid has ever heard it before. What is happening. 

He can’t speak for a moment. 

“I, uh. Fuck, G.” 

Geno is just. Sitting there so close Sid can feel the heat of his body, looking at Sid with dark, serious eyes. 

Sid wants to kiss him. Wants to push him back onto the couch and mark him up.   
Something must have shown in his face because Geno tilts his head, brows drawing together in puzzlement. 

“Sid?”

Sid shakes his head. He has to get It together, in so many ways. 

“No, yeah, sorry I just.” He sighs. “Thank you, G. I can’t tell you how much that means.” 

Geno makes a hum of agreement, and stands, extending a hand to Sid. Sid shouldn’t take it but he does, let’s Geno haul him to his feet, and lets Geno…pull him in for a hug apparently. Oh no. 

This time Geno smells like the body wash Sid keeps in the guest bedroom, and his worn t shirt is soft against Sid’s cheek. 

It’s a curiously long embrace, and when Geno’s arms tighten Sid allows himself the indulgence of relaxing, letting himself melt into it. 

Geno raises one hand and lays it heavily on the nape of Sid’s neck. He eases back so he can look into Sid’s face. 

Sid can’t tell what he’s thinking. And he himself can’t think at all, not with Geno’s hand pressing onto his neck and his everything so, so close. 

He realizes, slowly, that Geno’s hands are shaking. 

“G?” 

“Sid,” Geno says, husky and so low. 

Sid feels outside of his body, incredulous that this is really, actually happening as Geno, very slowly, leans in, pausing just a hairsbreadth from Sid’s lips. 

“Sid?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and tilts his head up to cross that final bit of separation. 

Geno’s kiss is soft lips and hot mouth, gasped breaths and possessive sweeps of those huge hands. 

Sid shudders in his arms as Geno moves to his neck, trailing kisses across his jaw and down to the skin bared by the vee of his sleep shirt. 

Sid tugs them backwards, folding when the couch hits the back of his legs and pulling Geno down over him. 

He’s greedy, he’s starving. He can’t touch enough skin, he can’t get Geno close enough. He sets his teeth where Geno’s neck meets his shoulder and nearly keens when Geno moans and responds with a slow, devastating roll of his hips. 

“Geno, is this— are you—“

Geno pushes himself upright enough to look Sid in the eyes. 

“Won’t leave, Sid. Can’t.”

“I’ve wanted this,” Sid confesses. “I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

“Good,” Geno says, and rolls his hips again. 

“I can’t just do a, a one time fuck or—“ 

“No,” Geno says sharply. “No.” He leans on one elbow so that he can lay a hand on Sid’s cheek. “We’re like this, you know? Mine.” 

Sid feels too bright and expansive for his skin. He fists a hand in Geno’s t-shirt and tugs him closer. 

“Mine,” he echoes, and Geno groans, responding to another tug and taking Sid’s mouth in a deep, demanding kiss. 

Hands and mouths and the greedy rocking of their bodies bring them to completion within moments of each other. 

Sid lies there after, stroking his hand over Geno’s head where he’s laid it on Sid’s chest. He’s sprawled over Sid like a gigantic, clingy octopus, and Sid is feeling the kind of incredulous elation he normally associates with Cups and Olympic gold. 

“Thanks for coming, G,” he says, and although he meant “coming to Canada,” 

Geno snorts. 

“You know what I mean, dickhead,” Sid says, laughing. 

“I mean it,” he says a few minutes later. “I’m just, yeah.” 

Geno smiles at him like that made perfect sense, and doesn’t protest when Sid prods him upright and tugs him along into Sid’s bedroom. 

***

Jet lag or not, Geno falls asleep with Sid spooned up behind him, and is still asleep when Sid wakes up to the mid-morning sun streaming in the windows.   
Heart impossibly full, the old ache released and gone, Sid presses a kiss to the sun-gilded skin of Geno’s shoulder. 

He had dreamt of the lake again, but this time, as happened for him only rarely, he’d lucid-dreamed. 

“No,” he’d told Dream-Geno, and turned his back on the lake. Which suddenly was a completely frozen Monongahela River. 

He points up the bank, towards the arena. “We’ve got a game to get to.” 

Dream-Geno put his hand in Sid’s, and leaned down to kiss his hair. 

“Let’s go,” he tells Sid, and they walk up the bank together.

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the Spitting Chiclets interview. So much Content. 
> 
> You can find me as [knifeshoeoreofight](http://knifeshoeoreofight.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and as @RainyForecast on Twitter. Come say hi!


End file.
